


out of nowhere

by lusterrdust



Series: somewhere in time [2]
Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Death, F/M, Falling In Love, Heavy Angst, Period Piece, War, World War II, bughead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 20:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11169681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusterrdust/pseuds/lusterrdust
Summary: "Jughead thinks of the song that came on when she’d said yes to their date. It had been the one she’d sang when he was first injured, and it had been the song that was playing when he stood outside the hospital, healed and discharged, ordered to return to duty." [bughead, wwii au]





	out of nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd
> 
> part 2 of my period piece collection, sorry for the feels you'll experience

 

 

>  ▱◯♕
> 
> _“Love is like war; very_  
>  _easy to begin, but very_  
>  _hard to stop.”_  
>  _—H.L Mencken_
> 
>  ◯

He awakens to both an angel and immeasurable pain. His flesh feels on fire, but he swears he can’t be in hell, for there are no angels of beauty there.

“Mr. Jones?”

Even her voice is melodic, more proof he’s somehow gained entry through the pearly gates of heaven. Blonde hair, blue eyes and pink lips, he stares up at her in wonder and questions how he can still feel pain, even after death. It’s not until the ringing in his ears lowers and the grunts and murmurs of injured men around him stir realization that he’s not _dead_ , he’s wounded—and there’s no angel, only a nurse.

There’s clinking of physician’s tools all around him, and the pain in his leg and hip sear like acid, but he can’t speak through the cloth in his mouth. There’s a hand on his face, directing his cheek in her direction. “Mr. Jones, you’re okay. I need you stay still, can you do this for me? Doctor Fitzsimmons is removing the remaining pieces of shrapnel from your thigh—it’s going to hurt, I won’t lie, but I need you to hold still.”

The woman is talking quickly, but her voice remains soothing, and he finds himself trying to comply. He tries to stay still even through the unbearable pain that ripples through his nerves and up his spine. He clenches his teeth and stares up into blue eyes that are no longer on him but are following the Doctor’s movements as she assists the tending to his injury.

How had he gotten here? His memory is fuzzy until ringing rises in his ears again. There’s explosions and his best friend Archie screaming at him to get back before a cloud of smoke and flames burn more than just his flesh.

_“Jughead, no!”_

There hadn’t been any time to understand what happened after that.

His body betrays him as he begins to breathe heavily in a panic, the room no longer a safe place but open fields of destruction. His arm swipes at the doctor, knocking the object from his hand before he’s being restrained by slim fingers.

“Mr. Jones! It’s okay, you’re okay— _Get the anesthetic_!”

Jughead growls out in frustration and pushes the hands off him before metal is pressed to his mouth, and in seconds, warmth envelopes him and there is nothing but black once more.

… … …

When he wakes up again, there is no angel hovering over him.

There is only the stench of blood and medicine, and the echoes of coughing, moans and groans from the fellow soldiers in the beds around him. His whole left side throbs and he realizes he’s lying on his right before he spots her—two cots away, she’s leaning over and washing the hair of a man with no arms. There’s gauze wrapped around his chest and empty air where limbs once were. Jughead feels his chest clench with unbearable pain.

 _His unit—!_ His eyes dart across the room as he tries to spot anyone familiar, and he notices then he’s in a mobile hospital, not an actual one with thick walls and metal beds; no, he’s on a cot and surrounded by walls of tarp. Though, he’s no longer in the fields of Normandy, no longer hearing the distant sounds of artilleries or explosions, it’s not exactly a realization he finds comforting.

He hears Bing Crosby on the radio across the room, a low volume set, and tries to move but grunts out in pain when his body protests.

The blonde nurse turns at the sound and parts her lips in surprise at his stare toward her, continuing her act of washing the other man’s hair before gently laying him back down to bed. She walks over to Jughead’s side and adjusts the sling along his neck.

“Try not to move so much.” She tells him, that same soft voice he recognizes with fuzzy remembrance.

“I’m not exactly partial to this song.” He murmurs through the pain, feeling the sling around his neck that’s holding his arm in place drag across a mole painfully.

“Really?” the blonde nurse exclaims gently, running her hands down his side before there’s a cooling sensation over the burning skin there. Her hands change his bandages as he takes a glimpse at her from the corner of his eye. “It happens to be my favorite. Now, tell me, do you feel anything here Mr. Jones?”

There’s the sensation of something cold running up the bottom of his foot as he answers yes.

“That’s very good.”

“You seem more like a Glenn Miller type of gal.” he tells her, watching as she strolls back to his side with a curved lip of amusement. He doesn’t know if he’s delirious from drugs or just being a horrible conversationalist, but the thought to ask sensible questions is far from his mind.

He blames the drugs.

“Yes, but there’s just something about this song.” The blonde nurse sighs whimsically as she leans closer to take his temperature. Her eyes are a dark shade of blue—and he second guesses if she’s real or just another hallucination. When she opens her mouth, singing along with the radio, the most beautiful voice graces his ears as the room becomes hazy once more.

“Say,” Jughead blinks blearily, feeling a hand on his cheek as a calming shush lulls him into a sense of security. “What’s your name?”

“Nurse Cooper.” She answers with a tilt of her head and a smile that follows him into his dreams as Bing Crosby’s voice echoes lowly in the room.

 _“You came to me, from out of nowhere._  
_You took my heart and you found it free._  
_Wonderful dreams, wonderful schemes_  
_from nowhere. Made every hour,_  
_sweet as a flower to me.”_

 

… …. …

The next couple days pass by tediously for Jughead. The blonde nurse _(Nurse Cooper)_ is nowhere in sight. Nurse Lodge tells him she’s working a different shift, and for some reason, it makes his mood foul.

On the fourth day, when his wounds don’t feel as brutal, and the doctors don’t notice him as often, he sits up and slowly pulls the sling off from around his neck, hissing slightly when his arm throbs, but not enough to stop his stubborn determination.

It’s when he pulls the covers back and tries to move his legs that the gasp leaving his lips draws her attention from across the room. His flesh looks gnarled, like sliced deli meat, stitched oddly and swollen.

Panic stirs up in him once again as fire and smoke fill his nostrils until—

“I’ve been hearing you were a stubborn one.” Her voice, it makes him turn his head. She’s lowering something to the tray at his bedside while sitting gently by his calves, letting her hand hover over his torn flesh. The teasing sparkle in her eye dims as she glances up at him. “How are you feeling, Mr. Jones? I say, you’re healing quicker than expected.”

“I want to go outside.”

“Out—Well, it’s raining out.”

Jughead gives her a dry look. “I’ve been holed up in here for nearly a week. You can’t expect me to lay in bed the whole time.”

“You’re healing—“

“I’m wasting away!” he snaps despite his effort to be gentle. “No one here will tell me a damn thing about my unit or when I’m supposed to be sent back! I’m not allowed to wipe my own ass and I’ve been itching for a cigarette all—“

“Okay, okay!” Nurse Cooper concedes, holding her hands up and gesturing for him to quiet down. Her eyes glance over at the other patients around him, and Jughead suddenly feels like an idiot for waking some of them up. But his glare holds firm, right up toward the moment she moves him from his bed and into a wheelchair.

Jughead has always hated rain, from his childhood and into the storms he’s had to endure out in the service; but now, sitting outside and away from the downpour, Jughead watches with searching eyes as the blonde nurse lifts her hand up and sticks it out into the falling drops, he doesn’t think it’s so bad.

“Want to hear something silly?” she asks, turning her baby-blues to him.

The warmth that spreads though his chest at their piercing gaze is rapid and hard-hitting. The answer that falls from his lips is immediate. “Yes.”

She gives him a shy little smile that sends his heart into overdrive. The words _demure_ , and _poise_ spring to mind, but he sees the blood stains on her apron and the callouses on her hands and knows there’s a roughness to her that’s unseen by most. Her eyes move upward, toward the gray skies and dark clouds.

“When I was a little girl, my daddy used to tell me that raindrops were tears from heaven’s gate.” She says softly, rubbing the liquid between her fingertips before placing them at her side.

“I thought there were no tears allowed in heaven.” Jughead replies, not exactly a religious man himself, but well versed enough from his upbringing to know a thing or two.

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” she answers, stepping back and clasping her hands in front of her. “Before you get inside the gate, you cry for the days lost and the loved ones missed before entering.”

There’s a silence that stretches out between them as Jughead stares out into the rain. He visualizes her words, imagining the faces of his family and friends lost up on some mystical cloud. Flashes of red—in the mud, in the grass, painted on the shrubbery around him—it comes to mind and he grips the handles of his wheelchair tightly.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispers to him, the brush of her fingertips over white knuckles bringing him back from the dark images. There’s not an elaboration on what she’s sorry for, whether it be his lost men or his injury, but he supposes she doesn’t quite know herself. Perhaps it’s a little of both.

He grunts noncommittedly and stares forward, away from the expressive eyes that lure him to swim out into the bottomless sea rather than wade safely in the shore.

She lights up a cigarette for him and takes a drag before placing it between his lips. The outline of her red lipstick stands out against the white butt, the taste of it is bittersweet against his own chapped lips. It smudges when he pulls it away to exhale, his arm lying against the armrest lazily.

He pushes his free hand through his hair, letting his fingers sit in the thick locks for a moment as he observes her. “What’s your name?”

Her eyes widen slightly, surprised at his blunt question. “It’s Cooper—“

“Your real name.” he interrupts, watching with a pleased sensation as the apples of her cheeks bloom cherry red at his intense gaze. “You got one of them, don’t you?”

“Elizabeth.” She smiles at him, tucking a stray blonde wisp behind her ear. “Everyone calls me Betty.”

“Betty.” He murmurs breathlessly. It suits her.

“We should get you back inside, Mr. Jones.” She says kindly, breaking the silence that lingers between them comfortably.

“Just a few more minutes.” Jughead requests quietly as her gaze falls to him, sitting in his wheelchair and staring forward with pensive eyes.

“Okay.” Betty whispers, looking out into the camp and staring at the reflections of it through shallow puddles and muddy waters.

They stay out for another half an hour.

… … …

Jughead learns a lot about Nurse Betty Cooper the next few days after that. She reads to him at night, even when discovering her shifts have been over and she has no obligation to sit by his side. He learns that she loves to dance and sing, and she can play the violin. He learns she had an older brother who died during the attack on Pearl Harbor, adding fuel to her passion to help and serve others out in the field.

He tells her about himself in turn, and appreciates the amount of empathy she holds for his confidences, no pity or sorry looking gazes, just pure understanding. At the lighter bits, he finds himself enjoying her little eyerolls and smirks every time he makes a sardonic remark.

“ _You like to present yourself as sharp and stinging, but I’ve got a feeling you’re just a big softie, Jughead Jones.”_

She’s checking his leg after the doctor leaves another day later when he notices the lack of ring on her finger. It piques his interest, the short weeks of his healing pulling the fuzzy veil the mobile hospital’s meds have kept him deliciously under over his head. There’s more clarity now, in his mind and in the jagged scar tissue running up his leg. He’s been watching her all day tend to patients, using her hands and words to build them back up into health.

Jughead thinks the nurses might know a bit more in the ways of healing a man than the actual doctors, but keeps his opinion to himself.

“Will you go out with me?”

Betty blinks up at him. “Excuse me?”

Jughead grits his teeth when the gentle wipe of her hand tugs painfully at one of his stitches by accident.  

“Go out with me.”

“I don’t think you could handle a girl like me, Mr. Jones.” She teases lightly, tending to his leg. He notices that she slows her movements with him; only him she does this with, and he’s secretly pleased in taking notice of the small detail.

“Oh, really?” his brows raise as the urge to tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear is pushed away. “I’ve always enjoyed challenges.”

Betty raises an eyebrow at him, a tiny curve to her lips. “Is that what I am to you? A challenge?”

“You’re beautiful to me.” Jughead responds honestly, turning his head on the pillow to watch her more comfortably. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips as she shyly continues her task, beguiled by his candor.

“Why do I feel like I know you, Mr. Jones?” Betty whispers quietly, looking at him through the corner of her eye as she gently smooths the freshly wrapped bandage around his thigh. Her touch awakens his flesh but her words do so much more, because he’s been wondering the same thing.

“Jughead.” He corrects softly.

“Why do I feel like I know you, Jughead?” she asks again, this time stopping her movements as she regards him carefully. “I feel like I’ve known you all my life.”

“Maybe we’ve met.” He answers lightly, reaching forward to grab her hand. She doesn’t pull away.

“I would’ve remembered a face like yours.” She quips playfully, moving her thumb to caress the back of his hand. Her eyes flitter down onto the cot as a grimace appears on her face.

“Maybe we met in a different life.” Jughead shrugs as the sensation of familiarity from the weight of her hand in his hits him like a freight train. It feels…comforting. Whole. Like it’s supposed to be there. “Like reincarnation.”

“I don’t believe in that.” Betty tells him, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching them. “But I believe in fate.”

“Do you?”

“There’s just… something about you.”

“Say yes, then.” He responds, giving her an attempt at a charming smile. “A date. When we’re back home.”

He’ll remember this moment when he’s patched up and out in the streets of Saint-Lô—he’ll remember the shades of blue in her eyes and the slight curve of her brow as she regarded him with a sort of smitten amusement to his persistence.

“Okay.” Betty agrees as he lifts her hand and places a kiss in the center of her palm, watching with rapt adoration as a blush spreads over her cheeks. “When we’re back home.”

Bing Crosby comes on the radio then, the low tunes filtered through soft static just loud enough for him to hear the first verses; and three weeks later, when he’s lying among rubble, his breaths shallow and his body numb with the ringing in his ears caused by bombs dropped—Jughead sees Betty Cooper. In his mind’s eye, he imagines her in a beautiful dress with her hair pinned back, lipstick red like strawberries, dolled up for their date.

He thinks of her, sitting beside him, reading him sleep, brushing his hair and standing outside in the rain for him to have a smoke.

Jughead thinks of the song that came on when she’d said yes to their date. It had been the one she’d sang when he was first injured, and it had been the song that was playing when he stood outside the hospital, healed and discharged, ordered to return to duty.

_“Don’t forget about our date, Jughead. I’ll be expecting you, understand? We’ll go dancing, and watch the sunrise, maybe catch a show…”_

_“Don’t fret, Betty. There’s nothing that could keep me away. I promise you that.”_

That’s what he thinks of as his breathing slows. He thinks of Betty Cooper’s shining blue eyes and the feel of her lips, so soft and tender against his own as they’d said goodbye. Jughead closes his eyes and remembers her voice, angelic and full of haunting beauty; it lulls him to a blissful darkness, away from the fires and smoke around him.

He only wishes he could have kept his promise.

 _“And if you should go back to your nowhere_  
_leaving me with a memory,_  
_I’ll always wait for your return out of nowhere_  
_hoping you’ll bring your love to me._

 _When I least expected, kindly faith directed_  
_you to make each dream of mine come true_  
_and if it’s clear or raining, there is no explaining_  
_things just happened and so did you.”_  


End file.
